


νόστος (Homecoming)

by Inner Voice (inner_v0ice)



Category: Mask of Apollo - Mary Renault
Genre: Ficmix, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inner_v0ice/pseuds/Inner%20Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thettalos loves the actor's wandering life, but in the end he knows where his home is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	νόστος (Homecoming)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fawatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/gifts).



> secret-agent!Thettalos wasn't cooperating at all, so you get this instead.
> 
> Also, the music is all embedded from Youtube, so don't worry about unsafe links or anything!

  
_The Decemberists - I Was Meant For The Stage_   
  


  


The first time I was on stage, I remember, I nearly fainted dead away. I was an extra, a spear-carrier, and Nikeratos warned me laughingly that I would have to wait some time to get my first speaking role. He needn’t have worried that I would resent my small part; the very prospect of being on stage had me giddy with joy the whole morning before the performance. The moment I stepped out in front of the crowd, my whole body went numb and tingling and my head started spinning with the reality that _I was now on stage._ I somehow managed to walk to my place, but when I got there I froze, my hand clenching the spear till it my knuckles turned white.

After a few interminable moments, I remembered what Nikeratos had told me—that an extra is not just a wooden statue, that he must move and react to the actors’ lines and gestures. I concentrated on remembering the movements I had practiced in the rehearsals, and suddenly— _suddenly_ I was moving so easily and naturally that I could hardly believe it. I sent up a silent prayer to the god that my gestures were really as right as they felt, then let myself be swept away into the play.

After the play, Nikeratos hardly took the time to remove his mask before he pulled me into a quick crushing embrace. I couldn’t think for the giddiness of the day and the shock of his closeness; I could only blink at him stupidly as he complimented my performance while beaming so brightly at me that I felt dazzled by radiance.

That was years ago now, and I daresay I have come a long way from the young spear-carrier I once was. But every time I step out on stage, I feel—just for a moment—a flash of that tingling numbness, that thrill of doing what I am meant to do. And every time we see each other after a long time apart, Niko’s joyful smile dazzles me just the same as always, and his embrace of welcome still sends a shock of joy through me.  


  
_Simon and Garfunkel - Homeward Bound_   
  


  


One of my favorite things about being on tour is that you can play differently to every audience along the circuit. Some actors, like Miron when I was a young man, prefer to stick to their tried-and-true interpretations of each character so that each performance is dependably solid and predictable. There’s something to be said for that, I suppose, since the audience will always be sure of what they’re getting when they hire the company. But as for myself, I love to lose myself in a different version of the character each time I go on stage. One day I am Medea, a wronged woman driven mad by love and abandonment, wringing tears and sighs and sympathy from the audience; a few days later I am Medea, a fearsome and quick-tempered enchantress who horrifies the audience with the gruesome murder of her rival and her children.

This habit of mine has earned me some notoriety among young actors over the years. They say that if you can survive a season’s tour with Thettalos you will be prepared to play second or third to any other actor in the world, since being in my company is like having an entirely different protagonist every week. The youngest take this as a joke, of course, and laugh quite heartily whenever someone mentions it, but I have had actors come to me several years after touring with me and tell me quite sincerely that they have done much better for having had the experience.

Near the end of the tour, though, even the delight of arranging a new interpretation of a play begins to wear thin, because all I can think of is how much I want to tell Niko about each new discovery. I want to tell him how Euripides’ _Hippolytos_ had gotten more tears than I had ever seen before when we played it some tiny fishing town that we had only stopped at because of a storm. I want to tell him how I tried to imitate the charming accent of Alexander’s Bagoas for Queen Atossa in _The Persians,_ though the audience wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Walking down the road to our little house by the river, I’m always smiling at the thought of coming home, and I exchange one love for another without regret. The god gave me the theater, and I serve him on the stage as best I can, but he gave me Nikeratos as well, and that is a gift I hold equally dear.

  
_Nana Mouskouri - The White Rose of Athens_   
  


  


Near the end of a tour, I keep track of the days by the blooms on the rosebushes I see along the way. There is a rosebush in our garden on the banks of the Kephissos, and when Niko and I are both home from touring it always seems to be in bloom, its sweet scent wafting into the house on the summer breeze. When the buds begin appearing along the side of the road I begin thinking of home, idly remembering the sound of the river and the birds in the orchards. When the first blooms begin to open, I start to anticipate the end of the tour and mentally count the towns left to visit before we are done. By the time the roses are in full bloom and threatening to fade, I am usually on a fast ship home. Niko and I have a habit every summer of making wreaths for each other with the flowers from our garden, then offering them to Aphrodite with our thanks. He will chide me if I arrive too late and the only roses left are fading, so I hurry home to him as fast as the wind will take me.


End file.
